Frontier
by xlightfromabovex
Summary: Too often, Sephiroth saw the captured charm their captors into allowing freedom. That would not happen with Rhapsodos. But the outlaw's gang have other ideas... Sephiroth/Genesis, Western AU, sequel to Wilderness. Most likely smut in later chapters.
1. Lock & Load

**[A/N: Haigaiz! Back again with the next bit of the Western saga after it was so nicely-received last time ;3 This time: Curses! Chases! Concussion! Super horses that can run foreverrrrr! And Angeal and Zack make their appearance – they'll be hangin' around more now…**

**So this really turned out a lot longer than I thought it would! And so, it's going to be multi-chaptered! 8D So please bear with me, I'm back to college full-time for three weeks but this bugs me so much I will most likely find the time to continue it xD**

**Alors, onto the main event~**

**Enjoy~!]**

**I – Lock and Load.**

The air collected in this canyon was warmer, thicker than the breezes that roamed across the prairies, and Genesis could feel the heaviness of the atmosphere on his skin. Golden rocks radiated heat hazes, shimmering across the flat bottom of the valley above straggling clumps of scrub, and the very soil itself burnt under an unforgiving sun.

Genesis leant back in the shadow of the boulder he sat against, holding a small, tattered volume in one hand, his other running idly through the sandy grit beside him, unconcerned over rattlesnakes or scorpions that could be basking beneath the surface. In his peripheral vision, he could see the black bulk of his horse, tearing at the sparse vegetation; just above the line of the pages he read moved a shadow accompanied by the regular crunch of footsteps and metallic touch of spurs, light breath occasionally blowing out in an impatient sigh. As the sun crept on through the sky, Genesis snapped the white leather-bound book shut and lowered it to glare from under his hat.

"Angeal, shifting around like a corralled steer will not make the coach come any faster. You're giving me a headache."

The tall man he addressed halted and looked down guiltily, only glancing back at Genesis for a second. One gloved hand rested at his hip on the holster of a heavy pistol; looming over one broad shoulder was the butt of a shotgun, a belt of shells crossing his chest to keep it in place. He shrugged and stared down the canyon again, squinting in the punishing light but obviously not seeing what he was looking for.

"I'm worried for Zack, that's all. I don't know that he'll lead the men properly – he'll charge too early and get hisself killed…"

Genesis shook his head, a half-smile dawning on his lips as he closed his eyes and rested back again contentedly. "I lead this gang, Angeal. If I thought he weren't ready I wouldn't've let him go down there, would I?" He could readily imagine Angeal's expression, the inerasable worry for the young man Genesis had allowed to join them the year before, and rode straight over it. "Any case, he'll have you down there with him in case he decides to shoot out before the gun's primed. The boys will follow you over him if need be." Cracking one eye open, he fixed his lifelong friend and now comrade with a hard stare. "But you won't let that happen."

"No." Despite the assertion, Angeal did not sound convinced. "It's just his first lead an'—"

"He has to do it sometime," Genesis reminded him, stretching his legs out luxuriantly. "I might not always be around, and if you take over you'll need a capable deputy. The boy needs to bite the bit, and you can rein him in after."

There was a laden pause broken only by the champing of the horses next to them, Angeal fingering his pistol for a few seconds before taking off his hat and passing the rim between his fingers, running worn leather gloves over the braided brim.

"You've been sayin' that a lot recently. Since that raid in Nibelheim."

"What would that be?" Genesis knew, of course, but he did not want to address the issue so directly. Ever since that failed attack his thoughts had kept returning to that man; the sheriff with the gold star and silver hair like the moon, with his piercing, unafraid eyes the green of fresh grass after the rains, his taste, only barely sampled, like the mint Genesis' mother used to have in her tea all those years ago…

If Crescent hadn't been so pale and foreign, Genesis would have been convinced he was some Native shaman who had cast a curse on him – but that was an idea that held no weight in the light of fact. Whatever the cause, he didn't like the strange preoccupation, and the encounter had somehow thrown a lot of his life into harsh perspective.

"That you won't always be here. You ain't planning on—"

Angeal's determined response was cut short by the skitter of horse hooves rumbling off the canyon walls, undercut by the rattle and creak of the stagecoach they had been waiting to ambush. The man's gaze snapped to the mouth of the gorge where Zachary and the rest of the gang were hiding, and Genesis slowly opened his eyes with a smile to his companion that hid the unrest he felt.

"Time for his test." As if the conversation had never happened, he tucked his book safely back inside his scarlet coat and stood languidly, feeling the sun strike the back of his neck as he came out of the shade. His horse raised its head as another outlaw approached, darting across the scree as soundlessly as the shadow of the keening eagle gliding overhead.

"It's our mark," the new arrival murmured to Genesis when he got close enough, a little breathless but not flagging in the least. "Driver, one gunman with him, another on the back. Rifles, probably pistols, no Gatling."

Genesis saw Angeal's sigh of relief at that; the hand-powered machine guns were lethal, spitting out bullets in sprays too unpredictable for any but the most skilled – and goddamn lucky – horsemen to dodge. The redhead nodded his acknowledgement to the scout and turned back to Angeal.

"Go, and make sure he don't mess up."

With a terse nod, Angeal swung onto his grey horse and moved off behind the scout, heading toward the plume of dust which marked the approach of the coach. Genesis wandered out from behind the rock to watch it, from here only able to see the glint of sun on glass and metal, hearing its road thunder ever closer.

How many similar vehicles had he robbed? Countless. They had worked on a successful technique to this business which worked like a charm; the gang would conceal themselves high up the scree banks at the mouth of a gully and creep down, guns muffled and horses calmed, after the target had passed, herding it along the trail. When the order was given – when Genesis deemed it time, unless he put someone else in command – the two groups would sweep down and catch the carriage, gunning down any guards until it crashed and they could plunder it or until one of them managed to leap on and seize control. Then the robbery itself, and a swift exit of victory and saddlebags replete with gold.

Today was an experiment of sorts, and Genesis would take a strictly speculative role. Tweaking his hat to block the sun from his eyes, he pulled the ever-present bandanna over his mouth and strode to his horse. It took only a moment to check the girth; then with a practised jump he was in the saddle, the reins laced lazily through the fingers of one hand as he spurred the steed further along the slope. The horse picked its way over the treacherous ground and Genesis turned his attention to the stagecoach, more visible than before now it was closer on the snaking, barely marked trail.

Four horses pulled the wooden vehicle, encouraged by the bite of a long whip and cries that rang desperation into the mountains. The passengers had seemingly noticed the silent escort that hunted them; the two guards had loaded their guns and the man up front was half-turned in his seat, watching the pursuit, while the rear man was braced to lift his weapon to his shoulder as soon as the outlaws launched their assault.

Genesis watched the shapes stalking after the coach, picking out Angeal swiftly in his dusty white shirt and dark brown waistcoat, tall and tense in the saddle, and beside him the figure of the youngest member of the gang, his head bare, wild black hair standing out even from here. His gun was in his hand; Genesis waited, curious to see when Zack would order the attack. It would have to be soon – already the guards were prepared, if fearful, but the coach was almost halfway down the canyon. If he was not careful, it would be too late and he would have failed his test.

But just as Genesis was becoming impatient, Zack's pistol fired out into the air and his voice rose, unrestrained and excited, and at the call the eight horsemen thundered down into the road behind the coach. Just in time – Genesis noted the point for later evaluation – but as the battle began just like every other battle, he found his thoughts beginning to wander again. As always recently, when given a second of silence they returned to that damn man…

He didn't want that now. That was a month and a world away, and he would probably never see him again; foolish, like an undisciplined cowherd, to be mooning after a momentary acquaintance in such a manner. Below, the guards appeared to be far more skilled than they had anticipated – already one of his men was down, slumped over the saddlehorn as his horse pranced and bucked, left behind the main fracas.

Gunshots shattered the serenity of the cliffs, cracking and reverberating up to the sky. From his vantage point halfway up the valley side on a solid rock promontory, it seemed to Genesis that an equal number of shots were bursting out from either side – with a thrill of surprise, he realised that what they had believed to be harmless civilians inside the coach also had weapons, confirmed when one man riding beside it was tossed out of his saddle from a shot through the now-open window, while the rooftop guards continued their own barrage.

It was a trap, they had been set up somehow – the first pangs of what was horribly like fear, something Genesis had not felt in years since he had been forced into this life, tore through his gut. Drawing one of his own pistols, he half-reared his horse to turn it with the intention of joining his men and twisted in the saddle with a curse to aim the gun down at the driver of the speeding coach.

But just as he was about to kick his mount down the slope, he felt the unmistakeable touch of a barrel against the back of his neck and froze, the horse pawing and tossing its head beneath him.

"Drop your weapons."

The metal was cold on his skin in comparison to the arid air and unyielding; Genesis had no choice but to pitch his pistols to the ground, an attempt to turn his head cut short by the press of the gun on his spine.

"And the knife."

In those three tacit words, his captor's identity was revealed; it could be no one else. Dropping the hunting blade to the rock too, Genesis smiled wryly beneath the bandana, drawing amusement from the fact that Crescent hadn't found out about the second knife. He tilted back his head, cradling the gun barrel as he laughed and held his hands up.

"So we meet again, huh?"

Ignoring his words, the man behind him lifted the gun from his skin. "Turn this way. Slowly."

Genesis nudged his horse around with his knees, suddenly aware of the sharp drop off the edge of the promontory in the dusty silence, and came face to face with a group of five men, only one of whom he recognised. The one holding that pretty rifle steadily aimed at his chest, jade eyes shadowed under a black Stetson somewhat similar to Genesis' own, silver hair gleaming in the sunlight.

"G'd afternoon, sheriff. Didn't expect to see you here."

"Come with us. If you resist, we will shoot all of your men."

Genesis cocked his head and grinned wider, though the bandana hid it still. "You'll have to catch 'em first."

Before the man could reply, Genesis twisted the horse back to the valley and the still-raging battle and gave a loud, piercing whistle – the prearranged signal to break off an attack and flee to safety. Almost immediately his men wheeled off from around the coach and galloped away up the road; before the curses from behind him and the beginnings of pursuit from the men gathered, Genesis saw Angeal glance up and see his predicament. He raised one hand in acknowledgement before he felt, rather than heard or saw, the swish of the rifle end swinging towards his head.

A dull pain erupted in the side of his skull and the last thing he saw before he blacked out was the rock rushing to meet him as he slid off his horse, and he hoped Angeal had gotten away.

.

Sephiroth watched Rhapsodos hit the ground dispassionately, knowing that he would not be seriously hurt and taking merely irritation that the job had to be done in such a way. He would rather have not knocked the man out; it was brutal, too uncivilised for his preference, but Rhapsodos did not co-operate and he had to pay the price.

And that lack of co-operation had caused more problems than anticipated. Sephiroth raised his gaze from the crumpled form beneath him as he swung off his own horse, hanging the rifle back on his saddle, to see the men he had brought galloping in hot pursuit of the outlaw gang, multiple plumes of golden dust swirling in the bottom of the canyon with the light breeze.

He knew they would not catch them. This was open, wild country; home to bandits and natives and the buffalo wandering on the grasslands. It was not a place for townspeople, even from a bare excuse for a town such as Nibelheim, even when they swore they knew these parts from the five generations they descended from. They still would not catch their quarries, but Sephiroth knew that any attempt to call them off now would fail.

They would come back to town later, angry and tired, and he would let them go and thank them for their help with a small payment. Such was the way of things; allegiance bought for a few coins, every man for themselves, all wanting to catch a bit of glory for their own good. That dream of pioneering, of making a name for oneself out of nothing, was, perhaps, the draw of these lands, the reason for the constant stream of travellers wandering out in the sun and through the larger towns like Midgar over on the East coast. Sephiroth remembered, when he had lived there, how many anonymous people passed his dwelling every day: weary families caked in dust, fresh-faced belligerent boys armed with the cheapest revolver they could pick up at a store, wealthy old men with their pinstripe suits and pocket watches, watching the world go by because they already had what they wanted.

It was a land of great danger and opportunity, where one had to watch their back every second because there would always be five pistols trained on it. Crime was rife and with the expanses of wilderness open for criminals to escape into as well as the attitudes bred into every man, it was almost impossible to contain – but Sephiroth could only try, now he was here, and with Rhapsodos' capture he had acquired a valuable asset.

In a strictly businesslike manner, he beckoned to the one horseman who had stayed behind – his deputy, Strife – and the small blond hopped off his small horse to help, blue eyes wide and trusting. Sephiroth briefly turned Rhapsodos over, seeing no sign of injury up close either. That was good enough for him. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a pair of rough iron handcuffs and slipped them around the outlaw's wrists while Cloud held them in front of the body, checking the lock before letting those slim arms drop.

"Help me put him on the horse," the sheriff instructed, standing back to step to Rhapsodos' other side. Cloud mirrored his example; Sephiroth slipped his hands under their captive's arm and shifted, bracing to lift him and push. He nodded to Strife and then, on a count, they both picked Rhapsodos up and shoved him onto the whickering black horse, propping his lithe body into the saddle. The deputy was little help, being so comparatively short and thin; but Sephiroth thanked him anyway and settled Rhapsodos securely on his own.

He tried to push away the memory of the last time he saw this man, but as every other time he had tried in this month, he failed. That unexpected encounter had unsettled him far beyond what he had wished for or expected; he hid it well, as he had learnt to hide everything from these people, but his thoughts still whipped up like the dust storms that occasionally struck the fields around Nibelheim, quick and vicious and destructive, every time he was reminded of Rhapsodos.

And those times had been frequent. For two weeks, he had entertained the possibility of being able to forget about the outlaw and his gang forever, so life could get back to – albeit mundane – normal. But it seemed Rhapsodos was not going to let him do that. As if determined to torment him, the man had left the area for a while (or at least kept quiet) before returning with a vengeance – almost every morning a rancher stormed into his office with reports of rustled cattle, damaged property, or horses scattered. The eyewitness reports all suggested one culprit – or one culprit and his associates – and as the crimes mounted, Sephiroth was forced into action.

The trap and its nature had been his idea, put into action after days of exhaustive scouting and planning. It had not been cheap, either – he hoped that the expense would be worth it, that they could rid the area of this one gang and hope that they didn't come under the focus of another.

But now the plan had come to fruition, and after making sure as perfunctorily as he could that Rhapsodos would not fall, Sephiroth stepped away from him and hooked the reins over the horse's head, going back to his own steed to tie them to the saddlehorn. One last check; and then he mounted, turning on the loose scree and gesturing to Cloud.

"Go behind and make sure he doesn't fall."

"Yessir."

Sephiroth moved off, trusting his horse to select a way through the rubble and keeping Rhapsodos' beast on a close lead, but slack enough that they would not pull each other down. It was a long trek down to the valley floor, but it seemed even longer when Sephiroth was glancing out of the corner of his eyes at the unconscious captive every few minutes, checking for the first signs of him coming round.

Part of him dreaded that event, and part of him was curious to see what the man was really like in further conversation. No, that couldn't happen – he should not talk to prisoners because of the complications it raised, and because there had been instances where the captured had charmed their jailer into setting them free. Sephiroth was a careful man, and he always adhered to the rules. If talking with the captive was out of order, he would not do so – no matter how much that little traitorous part of him wanted to get to know the outlaw better.

Dread because he had no idea if Rhapsodos would mention the particulars of their last, first, meeting in front of Strife. That could be disastrous; though Sephiroth believed the youth to be too awestruck by him to blurt the story out, there was always the possibility, and he did not know what that would do to his hard-earned respect as sheriff.

That was somewhat the reason for him sending Strife to be the rearguard of the little escort, as well as for his professed concern. However, they finally reached the road, the dust having already settled over the grit and stones, and Rhapsodos had shown no signs of waking, not even with the uneven rhythm of his horse's movement and the encouraging clicks the other two riders had to emit to keep their own beasts going. That state of affairs suited Sephiroth just fine as they turned and started on the road back to Nibelheim.

.

For a second, Angeal thought that the raid would go well. Although at first he had been worried over Zack's capabilities, when the younger outlaw got going, he was an unstoppable force fuelled by energy and pure excitement for the chase. Like an exuberant puppy, his blood could be raised by anything trying to get away from him, and also like a puppy he would not stop until he caught it; it had caused them trouble in the past, when overexcitement could ruin the chances of them all escaping, but Zack had never caused the death of any gang member and after the fact he was always repentant enough for Genesis to let him off with a warning.

For a second, Angeal thought that Zack would not heed the whistle he had not wanted to hear, even when the battle had turned against them for sure, even when two of their men had dropped and Angeal had felt the whizz of bullets too close to his skin too many times. But even as the elder stared up to where Genesis was beleaguered in disbelief, Zack's rallying cries turned panicked and he led the others away, peeling off from the assault as swiftly as they had launched it.

For a second, Angeal was torn between following the order and trying to save Genesis, though he knew it was a fool's errand. There were at least ten enemies surrounding the redhead, and he had only a pistol, a shotgun and two long knives. His decision was made for him when the majority of the other force crashed down the slope, yells angry and revolvers firing wildly into the air in heavy hostility. With a growl of frustration, Angeal turned his horse and followed the others, spurring the grey on as the distant image of Genesis falling to the ground repeated over and over.

It was a hard ride fraught with anxiety and concentration, adrenaline burning through his blood as hot as the sun beating down from the cloudless sky. Zack knew where to go – as soon as they reached the far end of the canyon, where scree-banked cliffs fell away to ripple across the land back to the mountains, he whistled and the six remaining horsemen split into three pairs, each team racing away in a different direction to divert the hunters.

Angeal joined Zack's stout bay horse and the two veered off north along the rough hills leading to the mountains that characterised this part of the country. The other did not look at him, too intent on urging his horse on to greater speed, digging in with the spurs, half-standing in the saddle as he crouched over the beast's neck. Occasional glances behind whipped his untameable black hair into his eyes, but the looks always precipitated a greater effort, and when Angeal followed his example he saw three men whipping their horses up to a lather, almost concealed by the dust trail.

The speed and immediacy of the chase was exhilarating but Angeal knew better than to let it get the better of him. He kept a sharp eye out for the landforms he recognised, the self-designated signposts back to their camp hidden in the foothills. There was one, the broken cactus – and then, that rock shaped like a horse tossing its head – and there, the dry, branchless trunk stooped to the ground like one of the trademark apple trees from his home town all the way back up north. He called out to Zack and together they swerved into a small gap between hills, a dry creek bed littered with desiccated plants and loose pebbles bleached by the sun.

The noise of stones kicked up by their horses' hooves rattled through the afternoon air and was soon joined by the din of others following – and then a loud cry and a curse, and Angeal looked back to see one pursuer down in a cloud of dirt, his horse having evidently slipped on the rough ground. He smiled and turned back, steering his own mount carefully up a steady gradient that rose and flattened in unrelated bursts.

Their horses were far more used to this terrain than the townsmen's; the rancher's beasts probably rarely had to come up this dangerous ground, as for risk of injury their riders would try to find safer routes through the territory. But the outlaws had no such qualms; the safest places for them were the ravines and gullies, the scrub-covered cliffs and caves where no one else would stumble upon them. And as now, the entry routes acted as a winnower of sorts, to cut down on enemies until they all fell.

The remaining two men were not to be put off so easily. Ahead of him, Zack ducked with a yell as a bullet caught his cheek, and Angeal immediately drew his pistol to twist and fire at the attacker. His shots went wide when his horse pitched in an unexpected dip, but he recovered and fired again, and this time his aim was true – his opponent was blasted from his seat with the force of the bullet square in his chest and dropped to the ground, dragging behind his whinnying horse with one limp foot caught in the stirrup.

His death tripped up the second man, whose mount shied and bucked, refusing to continue and even more unsettled by its rider's furious bellows and wild gunshots. By the time he might have been able to continue the chase, Angeal and Zack were gone, melted away into the hazy shadows with an elated laugh.

The camp was empty when they reached it, but the sight did not inspire fear yet. They had shaken off their tail surprisingly quickly, and the others had gone farther away from the camp to do so in any case. It was a modest setup; ten or so tents gathered in a vague circle around a fire pit and near a small running stream, two wagons providing a barricade as well as room to store plunder and possessions, and all hidden in a little ravine concealed by its twisting entrance.

With a loud sigh, Zack swung off his horse and met the ground with a thud, shaking out muscles trembling with exhaustion before glancing at Angeal with a mischievous grin.

"So how about that, Angeal!" he cried, spreading his arms to the sky. "We got them good!"

The elder smiled back fondly and dismounted somewhat more gracefully, patting his horse's nose as he led it to the bank of the stream. "We did." All his muscles were aching, from physical exhaustion as well as the tenseness from the initial ambush and the escape. He scratched the grey neck before him as his horse eagerly lowered its head to drink. Zack was still in the centre of the camp, somehow summoning the energy to perform a few squats; Angeal stared at him for a second before clearing his throat and motioning to Zack's horse. "Attend to your horse, Zack."

"Oh! Sorry."

"Always remember to take care of the horse before yourself," Angeal reprimanded him without real anger, though he also noticed the cut where the bullet had zipped past on Zack's jaw had begun to bleed, him oblivious of course. "They're what keep us alive mostly. As you just saw." Since the youth had been adopted into the gang after Angeal found him wandering in one of the towns they visited and was begged to let him join, the raven-haired veteran had kept Zack under his wing, teaching him what he needed to survive more efficiently than what he already knew. Genesis had waved a hand and allowed him to join on the condition that Angeal made him "useful", then promptly took little more notice; Angeal hoped that today was a sign that the redhead was taking Zack a little more seriously, and the thought made him proud.

"Yeah." Given the space to pause, Zack had turned more thoughtful, gazing past his horse's head into the mirrored shallow water below. "Did y'all see what happened to Genesis back there?"

Angeal didn't answer for a second, getting what he had seen straight in his mind. He sighed and looked up to the sky, cut off by the overhanging walls of the ravine above. "I think he got captured by some men from Nibelheim."

"What'll they do to him?"

"I don't know." At least, throw him in jail for as long as they could keep him there, maybe transferring him to a larger institution because any of the towns near here were too small to hold prisoners for long. At worst, deem his crimes to be worthy of the highest punishment, and sentence him to death by hanging. The thought made Angeal sick – to see his best friend, leader and occasional lover dangling from the gallows to be picked apart by the crows…

It was unthinkable for Genesis to be out of his life, for he had been such an immoveable fixture for so long. They had grown up together, moved out into the world together, been made outlaw together and forged their way in this life together – well, that wasn't strictly true. Genesis had been ostracised first, but Angeal could not bear to let him go off into the wilderness on his own and had chosen to leave his own life just for the redhead. But he never regretted it. Every time he saw Genesis smile – properly smile, not grin savagely at a kill or smirk in derision – Angeal knew why he had come with him.

But now he was gone, perhaps forever.

"Well then," Zack announced after a long silence, "we just gonna have to go get him back!"

Angeal started. "What?"

"Don' worry, Angeal," the other grinned, "I'll come with you. We'll go over to Nibel, shoot it up a bit, y'all can break open the jail and there we go! Easy as pie."

The thought wormed its way into Angeal's mind and though he knew it would not be quite as simple as Zack described, he knew from that moment he would go through with it. Genesis was worth anything – and as his protégé had pointed out, he would be there, along with as many other men with some kind of grudge or a death wish as he could muster.

Something that was not quite a smile but not a grimace crossed his face, and an eagle screeched from the firmament above. Yes.

Easy as pie.


	2. Corralled

**[A/N: Ooh, I bet y'all weren't expecting another bit of this considering my track record with commitment to stories! Aha! Well, I've planned the end of this, so I wanna get there **

**-_-; This episode – handcuffs! Hugs! Horses (again)!**

**Kicking Cloud in the face because he's a little eavesdropper! Oooh~ **

**Thanks to cupkaek for making it a bit more realistic P:**

**Also, what is everyone thinking of chapter length? Too long? Do feedback and ofc…**

**enjoy~!]**

**II – Corralled.**

Swaying. Disorientation. Burning on the back of his neck, aching as he blinked and tried to raise his head from where it had lolled forwards. The first things he saw were a hazy image of the saddlehorn, worn brown leather creaking; his horse's neck, moving slowly as it plodded over dusty, gritty ground; and then the handcuffs around his wrists, glinting in the light shadow cast by the sun behind him.

He blinked once, twice, and in reflex tugged at the restraints – but they were fastened tight, only digging into his flesh under the wide cuffs of gloves with his efforts. Then, with the sharp movement, the pain from the side of his head rushed in and he winced, stopping his struggles to concentrate on managing that hurt. The stiffness in his neck was fading a little; craning upwards, he raised his eyes to see unfamiliar scrubland stretching away before him.

For a moment Genesis wondered if his horse was wandering on its own, carrying him in handcuffs: the thought crossed his mind that Crescent and his posse had sent him out here alone to die in the wilderness. But then he noticed the second shadow dancing across the ground before him, one so distinctly shaped, and the sounds of other hooves and movement came at first distantly to his ears. One – two riders? Hadn't there been more with Crescent in the canyon? He guessed the others had gone in pursuit of his gang… but they were no match. Genesis chose his companions carefully.

So he had been captured. The idea did not seem so abhorrent to Genesis as it would have done with anyone else holding the keys to his escape, loath as he was to admit it. Already, plans of how he would escape were formulating, ideas plucked up and discarded in his mind as quickly as twigs in a whirlwind. He still had a knife – he could feel its hilt pressed against his hip – could he threaten his escort? Unlikely. No gun, and no other weapon – not that he could wield anything with his hands like this. That cancelled out the most obvious methods; clearly, something more subtle would have to be employed, but that was fine. Genesis was good at trickery.

However, the plotting did not stop the feeling of utter helplessness crowding behind his eyes; it was the first time he had been arrested in three years on the outside of the law, and he had heard what happened to known murderers and thieves.

A quick trip to the noose.

Genesis shook his head and calmed himself, seeking a form of distraction outside of countless failed plans and theories. It came, quite easily, in the form of the rider beside him, shaded emerald eyes fixed ahead, posture quite straight and proper: a stark contrast to Genesis' relaxed seat, constricted even as he was by the handcuffs.

"You know, sheriff," he drawled after a minute or so, wondering if Crescent had noticed he was awake before and irritated to find that his throat burned for want of moisture, "I don't think rifles are meant to be used in that way."

The man's surprise as his attention was caught was as evident in his face as in the startled toss of his horse's head, and Genesis had to hide his smirk; his bandana was no longer tied around his face, instead draped loosely about his neck. Surely his waking should not be such a cause of alarm? Satisfaction warmed him at the thought that Crescent might be _scared_ of him; but then, he did not seem the kind of man to get scared of people he deemed beneath him. As a common criminal, he supposed Crescent thought of him as worse than the vultures stooping over bloated corpses - however, the way he had reacted in their last meeting suggested a weakness, perhaps unknown to him, but one Genesis was eager to exploit.

**.**

They had been riding for a while when Rhapsodos suddenly spoke, and Sephiroth could not help but jump at the sudden voice. Gathering himself, he refused to turn around, instead glancing down to see that the man's horse was sufficiently well tethered to his own in case he tried an escape now he was conscious. For a few seconds he debated ignoring the outlaw and continuing on; but the temptation, so very rarely roused with his taciturn ways, was too much to resist.

"If criminals don't co-operate, a rifle can be used in any way," he replied quietly, looking up at the sun to tell the time as well as for something other than Rhapsodos to look at. It was getting on for late afternoon, about three o' clock perhaps, and the shadows were long before them. Glancing down, he saw Rhapsodos' head was not turned towards him; taking a risk, he slid a sidelong glance at the captive before looking back down at his horse's neck. "It's useful in many aspects."

Rhapsodos laughed, his voice slightly harsh with thirst and weariness. It was a laugh almost exactly like Sephiroth would have guessed the man to have – dark, sarcastic, with a tangible edge of mockery. He wondered if the outlaw could express himself any other way – and then reminded himself not to think of exploring things like that, perilous things.

"I didn't have you down as a creative man, sheriff," came the drawl, and Sephiroth's eyes narrowed, this time unable to stop himself glaring from under the brim of his hat directly at Rhapsodos.

"What is that meant to mean?"

The man grinned wide, like a cat, and arched his back in as much of a stretch as he could manage in the handcuffs and astride the steadily trudging horse. "Oh, nothing." Sephiroth thought he would say no more when he shook his head and chuckled softly. "So what else have you been doing with that rifle?"

Sephiroth stared resolutely away, at the road ahead and the blob in the distance that marked Nibelheim. He did not know precisely what Rhapsodos was trying to trick him into saying, but he was determined not to get trapped in the man's games, ones he was evidently fond of playing.

There was a long pause punctuated only by the crunch of hooves on grit and the swish of leather straining with the sway of the horses' gait. Strife hadn't spoken a word since they had captured Rhapsodos; Sephiroth only knew he was still there, following them, by the shade cast between he and Rhapsodos and by the extra set of footsteps. Sephiroth knew the boy would be listening to every word spoken, as he always did, assimilating information without being invited to because it was the only way he would get to know anything. In a way, Sephiroth felt pity for him; always alone, it seemed, outside of work, always forgotten.

It did not change the fact that for him to hear about his last encounter with Rhapsodos would be disastrous.

Sephiroth hoped the outlaw had exhausted his words and would keep silent until they reached Nibelheim and the tiny town jail, weary already of having to keep on his guard against the man's ploys and subtleties. He was certainly unique, though – no one else Sephiroth had had the dubious pleasure of becoming acquainted with in this area was quite like him, so bold, so _charming_. Or so dangerous. Of course, there were many men here who would murder as soon as pass the time of day, men who with a few shots of whisky would destroy a whole bar wielding chair legs and glasses, men who defended their land so bullishly that to step foot over an invisible border meant a beating.

But they were brash and brusque men – Rhapsodos was an entirely different breed. Rhapsodos was a scorpion to their rattlesnake, quick and deadly, and by the time you saw him it was too late. Sephiroth suddenly realised how he was thinking as though he was already defeated – but that was not true, he believed. He was determined to stay aloft of Rhapsodos' scheming, and to take him back to a cell and keep him there until the Midgar authorities sent someone to deal with him.

"Have you ever killed a man, sheriff?"

The question was abrupt and plain, the inflection one of pure curiosity. What was Rhapsodos trying to do? Sephiroth almost heard from behind Strife becoming attentive, both men waiting to hear his response. He took a breath.

"I don't believe I have the right to take the law into my hands like that."

"Not even if they didn't co-operate?" He was mocking him now, surely, and it stung like an insult bandied by children. Sephiroth fought to remain unaffected and shifted a little in the saddle, aware of the heat of the afternoon even now it was cooling, and uncomfortable.

"I have other ways of dealing with them in that case." A tiny glimpse told Rhapsodos' expression to be grimly amused, not quite facing him but tilted in his direction, the edge of the black Stetson obscuring some of Sephiroth's view. "As you can attest to."

"Indeed so." The silence that came next was not an empty one, rather a time for thinking, and Sephiroth braced himself for the impact of whatever was coming next. Again he thought with irritation of Strife's presence, wishing the boy would have gone with the others in pursuit. He was the greatest risk – and if Rhapsodos had not worked that out, Sephiroth would have been incredibly surprised. He knew the man would be saving that for an opportune moment; like…

"You seemed willing to put a bullet in me when we last met. Or was that a show?"

Sephiroth tensed and gripped the reins tighter, not pulling back in case he stopped his horse – he wanted to be in Nibelheim and able to lock this nuisance up as soon as possible. "No more talking," he announced through gritted teeth, hoping against hope Strife would not pick up on the link between the mention of "last time" and a ban on speech. "You're a prisoner. You don't have the right to talk."

.

Genesis grinned and settled back in his saddle, thoroughly amused and congratulating himself for piercing Crescent's armour. Just what was he so worried Genesis would reveal? The harmless little kiss last time they met? From the sheriff's response, hardly refusing him, Genesis assumed that he shared the same tastes – unless he had just been too shocked to move. Surely it hadn't been that sudden. No, if Crescent hadn't wanted it, he could have pushed away.

Was he married? That would explain his wish to keep Genesis quiet; but he didn't seem like the married type – reticent, dispassionate, too aloof to bother with anyone so close. Genesis hadn't seen his hands without those black leather gloves on, and he made a mental note to watch for a ring if he had the chance to see. Then again, it didn't matter, would it. He wasn't going to see this man after he escaped, ever again.

And he would escape, he knew. There was no cell that could contain Genesis Rhapsodos, not when he was so determined to be free, and not when he had someone he depended on on the outside to come and get him. Angeal would even now be planning how to break these handcuffs and get him away - he had always come to Genesis' rescue before, ever since they were barely teenagers and the prison had been the Rhapsodos house; ever since three years ago, when Genesis was thrown out from that confinement into the wilds, and Angeal was there to tend his bruises and his broken pride.

"Yessir!" The acceptance held no hint of submission; instead Genesis covered his creeping anxiety with mockery, lending an edge of sarcasm to the grin to Crescent before he settled back more comfortably in the saddle, resting his manacled wrists on his horse's warm neck. He would have plenty of time to work on the sheriff later, when they were alone, and they were not under the merciless sun and the scrutiny of that boy Genesis assumed was the deputy. Somehow.

The rest of the journey was slow. Genesis, trained by months of restless travelling, sometimes on the run, had learnt how to sleep in the saddle – he did so now, letting his body move with the rock of the horse, closing his eyes and resting his head forwards, hat pulled down over his brow. He heard Crescent sigh when he settled and hid another smile; no doubt the idea that his silence was now almost guaranteed for the rest of the journey was a relief.

It was the rattle of a passing cart that woke him, finely attuned to unusual noise as he was. Within seconds of hearing the iron wheels and loose wooden planks, he was wide awake, automatically reaching for his guns before the chain between his wrists snapped tight and the momentum almost threw him out of the saddle. He cursed and righted himself, refusing to look at Crescent and waiting for his heartbeat to slow. How undignified.

Luckily, they were not in the town proper and so no one else had seen – the road was now a little more defined, less a trail of rocks and sand and more closer to a proper highway, a swathe of slightly raised pale grit, straight and cleared of brush to where it entered the cluster of buildings that called itself Nibelheim. The driver of the cart barely spared them a glance; so busy hurrying on down the road that she didn't even acknowledge the three's presence, instead staring straight ahead to the road between the flicking ears of her mule.

"You're awake." Genesis instinctively turned his head to see the man addressing him, noting how Crescent's expression was just as neutral and unemotional as usual. His voice was as flat as his eyes; what was he thinking? Genesis did not like feeling so ignorant, so unable to read someone – especially someone who had such power over him.

"I am indeed," he answered brightly, blinking away the stiffness that came from his slumber. "Would you prefer me asleep?" He paused, letting the silence drift out. "Unresisting?"

If Crescent read anything into that, he didn't show it. "I trust you to be more intelligent than to attempt to escape."

Genesis shrugged, holding up his hands in mock defeat. "As if I would try."

"Good." Crescent's tone was so dry it could have been the sound of a wind blasting over the plains in the midst of the summer droughts.

And there was a breeze now; Genesis tilted his head back and slid his eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of fingers of cool air caressing his throat. He wished he could loosen the bandanna or more of his already loosely-buttoned shirt – as well as cooling him, it might help with Crescent, but it would be too awkward and far too blatant to try such an adjustment with these damn handcuffs on. Genesis wondered if Crescent would make him wear them even when he was locked up; that would be an inconvenient state of affairs.

"I thought I said no talking?"

Genesis laughed. "That took a mighty long time to remember, sheriff." And such an interval meant he was beginning to fall for it, meant Genesis had succeeded in making him think more about his captive than his rules.

The thought of freedom was one that he clung onto with increasingly fragile fingers as they drew nearer and nearer to the town, reality sketching itself in with every lumbering step of his horse. Town meant a cell. Prison. He had conjectured idly about it earlier, but now he could see the sign of the sheriff's office where the jail would be located, it seemed terribly real and… threatening.

But he wouldn't be there for long.

He told himself that, and made his mind lap up the curious – and some hateful – glances as simple attention, something he had always thrived on.

"Thief! Where're my cattle?"

"If ya' try to break out I'll kill ya' myself!"

"G'd work, sheriff, gettin' scum like him off the land!"

Crescent didn't respond to the calls, surprisingly, giving only the barest nod in reply to compliments and only tightening the lead between his and Genesis' horses as they reached the first buildings. What a strange man! Genesis couldn't imagine letting all this wash over him; he made sure to meet all the lingering gazes, a smirk painted on his lips, telling them all he wasn't broken, he wasn't a captive. He just happened to be here.

"Mr. Strife, help me get him inside."

Genesis eyed the building where he would temporarily be staying warily. He didn't really remember it from the last visit; then, he had only been looking for the sweet green dollar sign, not the treasure of a different kind that would await him inside. And after all these years, the offices and banks and saloons and ranches and goddess-knew what else, they all looked the same.

"Nice place y'all got here," he remarked, to no response.

The mousy Strife had hurriedly hitched his horse and now hesitated at Genesis' stirrup; he resisted the urge to kick the boy in the face. What was he doing as a deputy? He looked like he couldn't subdue a hungry calf, let alone hard-bitten criminals. Was he the best Nibelheim had to offer, or did no one else want to work with Crescent?

The sheriff had by now secured the two horses and dismounted, checking Genesis' reins were tethered as safely as possible before appearing around the mass of his steed to the outlaw's opposite side. Genesis grinned at him, deliberately determined not to help them.

"So how're y'all plannin' to get me in there?"

Crescent took no notice of him and dispassionately slid his foot out of the stirrup, his hands firm but without any feeling. "Push him this way, not too hard."

Letting himself go limp, Genesis allowed Strife's weak little arms to tip him towards Crescent; swinging himself down, the redhead threw his weight onto the sheriff, not knocking him over but getting himself caught in a solid, though unintentional, embrace. It didn't last for more than a moment, but that was enough for Genesis to meet Crescent's gaze, shadowed by his hat, clear and emerald and widened in what he thought was surprise – but his arms were tight, for those seconds, around Genesis' waist; even as they broke apart, the redhead gave him a look that he hoped conveyed the promise that _next time_, it would be better.

"Sorry 'bout that, sheriff," he drawled as the man momentarily collected himself, turning Genesis to grab him roughly by the elbow and steer him inside. "Must've lost my balance."

"It's fine," Crescent muttered, and by those two words – the most dismissive and most inviting he had heard so far, Genesis knew the first part of his entrapment was working as well as the ambush techniques he used with the gang.

The cells were even more basic than Genesis had imagined – a sheet of vertical black iron bars ran across three niches in brick walls, each with a heavily locked gate, each empty. They were tiny – there was barely room for the narrow pallet bed and the primitive sanitation in the far corner, and in the compartment facing the passage to the main office, there was only a stamp-sized window, high up. Barred, of course.

Crescent said nothing to him as Strife fiddled with a bunch of keys for the lock holding a thick bolt across the latch, merely holding his arm a little too tight to be comfortable, demonstrating his – preferable – disquiet over being so close to the outlaw. Disquiet was good. It meant Genesis could exploit it and slither his way closer to the apple of Crescent's heart and trust.

But that would have to wait, when Strife finally pulled the door open and held it while Genesis' escort pushed him inside, thankfully retrieving a small key to release the handcuffs. Genesis smiled, as innocently as he could, in thanks; kept his hands just that bit closer to Crescent's for just that little longer than necessary.

"Thanks for the room," he breathed, pulling away and rubbing his sore wrists languorously. He seated himself on the bed, kicking off his boots and lying back, hands behind his head, as if he belonged there and had chosen it himself. "Not the best, but it'll do."

"You won't be here for long," Crescent replied stiffly, hesitating by the still-open doorway. Genesis sat up, not because he thought the man was wrong, but because it was certainly for the wrong reasons.

"I was led to believe differently…"

"I'm sending a message to the Midgar authorities when there's a rider available," the sheriff replied, fixing his stare on the window above Genesis' head. "They'll know how to deal with you."

A little shiver ran through Genesis at that and he fought to retain his blasé countenance as Crescent gave an awkward little nod and left. He watched silver recede and swish around the corner, looking straight through the curious gaze of the deputy boy. The darkest parts of his mind began to surmise how these authorities would "deal with him": and every scenario involved a short trip and a short drop before the long, most lonely journey would begin.

.

It was almost nightfall by the time the rest of the gang returned, the sky bleeding ochre into silky blue. Every time a new pair arrived the others already gathered started from their tasks – some were eating, ravenous after the exertion of the day, from a large pot slung over the campfire; some, like Angeal, were cleaning their weapons or attending to the exhausted horses.

"Welcome back," Angeal greeted the last two men, staggering in from the mouth of the ravine covered in dust, their horses streaked with sweat. "Glad to see you safe."

The pair, mercenaries Genesis had hired a month or two ago, simply nodded and went to water their steeds. Angeal did not push them. They all had to recover; they had lost two good men today, as well as Genesis, and even in their occupation that was difficult to take. Angeal knew he regretted it. Any loss of life was too much: the only reason he saw fit to attack others was that he endeavoured to act in self-defence, and if not, then he did not shoot to kill, merely disable.

One couldn't be too compassionate out here, as their losses today showed. The men were demoralised, he could see that - asides from he and Zack, they were here because no one else would hire them; because Genesis had a reputation for being criminally active and was therefore profitable; or because they had needed to get out of town when the gang was recruiting. Not because they had a personal tie, not like Angeal, not like Zack who owed his life to Genesis taking him in and was too attached to Angeal to leave in any case.

The black-haired man looked over at the other in the early morning light the next day as the others began to crawl out of their tents, where he was sprawled next to him by the new fire, head propped up on saddlebags, fiddling with the barrel of his revolver idly. The cut on his jaw was clean and shallow; Angeal had had to make him hold still while he treated it, like a child. He knew what Genesis would have thought of that – he already believed Angeal mollycoddled the younger outlaw, and perhaps that was true; but having seen Zack's immediate recovery, completely undeterred by the new scar, he couldn't help but smile.

"So what we doin' now?"

Angeal glanced up from his shotgun at the gruff enquiry, narrowing his eyes to pierce the smoke twisting from the campfire. The speaker was a large-built man, hard-featured and carved by the elements. He was one of the newcomers they had picked up recently; Angeal had not taken a liking to him, and the man had not trusted Genesis as anything but an employer.

"We're going to break him out." Angeal kept his tone firm and low, brooking no opposition; even so, the other grimaced, shifting in his seat.

"But we ain't got paid for this." There was a little rustle around the fire as the other men drew in, obviously feeling this discussion was relevant to their thoughts. The first speaker, Wyatt, drew confidence from this; he squared up under Angeal's hard gaze, eyes flat. "I don't do nothing if I don't get paid. That's all I'm here for."

"How're we meant to get him out anyway?" Someone else was joining in now, an anonymous voice from outside the circle around the fire, back by the horses. Angeal resisted the urge to sigh and kept calm, determined.

"With your help – all of you – we can storm the place." There was a tangible uneasy breath at that, and Angeal saw the nearest two men glancing at each other warily. He continued doggedly. "Remember how easy it was last time? Nibelheim is—"

"We didn't get paid that time neither," Wyatt cut in, seemingly having nominated himself spokesman. "Way I see it, he's just got us along to make himself look—"

"And what about the last month? We've been raiding – only last week we sold those cattle _and,_" Angeal emphasised the point with a hard glare, "you _all _got paid."

There was a pause. By now Zack was sitting up, the gun loose by his side but not quite out of his grip. The camp was suddenly charged with tension; with a sinking feeling, Angeal realised he could do nothing to stop the group dissipating if they wanted to. And it seemed they did.

"Well, we didn't get paid this time," Wyatt eventually retorted, and the others murmured in agreement. Zack rolled his eyes.

"And? You gotta earn your keep here. We didn't protect Gen, so we gotta go get him back, whether we get paid or not!"

"Zack, that's not…" Angeal murmured, trying not to irritate the men any more, but Zack ignored him and ploughed on in defiance, his gun tighter in his fingers now, the other hand creeping up to be ready to load.

"'Sides, y'all didn't fight that well yesterday anyways – weren't you meant to be helping Smith? And look what happened to him."

The other man's hand leapt to his gun holster and he tensed to stand, glare narrow and furious. "Smith was my friend goddammit, and you didn't even know him, you little rat!"

"What did you just—"

"That's enough!" Angeal stood between the two bristling outlaws, keeping an eye on both their weapons and making it obvious he was. "Sit down." While Wyatt reluctantly sank back to the sand, Zack remained standing, glancing at Angeal in disbelief. The elder stared at him. "Sit _down_."

With a grumble, Zack seated himself, still shooting sulking looks at Wyatt. Angeal hesitated before he spoke, measuring his words carefully; he always tried to get on with the others, knowing that a team worked best together when they did not want to shoot each other rather than the target. Even so, he felt frustration creeping up with the lack of loyalty; didn't Genesis deserve at least one try?

"If – when – we get Genesis out of jail, I swear you will all be paid what you are owed. Each shall receive according to his efforts. That is only fair."

"How do we know we'll get out?" The others still seemed unsure, and at the petty question Angeal knew he had lost them. From now on it would just be excuses until they left, or more guns were drawn – and he did not wish for this to end in another fight. He sighed.

"I can't promise you that. It's up to you whether you survive or not."

There was a long silence then, as the men considered, the fire crackled and the horses snorted, waking up at the noise. Then Wyatt stood, holstering his pistol and touching the rim of his hat momentarily.

"Then I'mma take my leave. I can get better pay elsewhere. One thing," he added, turning away from the fire, "keep your puppy on a rope in future, Angeal. Someone just might bite him back."

He moved away and quickly gathered his belongings, as meagre as the possessions of the rest of them. Barely a minute after him, another man murmured an apology and melted back into the fledging dawn, bid farewell by the crunch of grit, and another, and another. The two who hadn't come into the vicinity of the fire had already tacked up their horses – already prepared to leave.

Angeal felt betrayed, but he knew he should not. They always knew what their comrades were – hired fighters, not a close-knit group, not yet. They would need more time and more success to attract constant companions, ones that they could trust through life and death and not just a promise of gold. With Angeal, Genesis already had that trust, and Angeal could rely on Zack – when he wasn't being hot-headed.

"Cowards!" the youth yelled after the deserters as they all cantered away through the crisp morning, disappearing almost like ghosts out of the ravine. "Y'all are filthy cowards!"

"Zack, please," Angeal insisted, "they won't listen. They won't come back."

"Well, that's just not right!" Zack threw a hand in the air indignantly, and Angeal could not help but feel a bubble of pride at his righteous anger. "Gen helped them out and now they won't do the same for him! Look at you!" He turned on Angeal, who remained silent. "You followed him out here when you didn't need to!"

The black-haired man cleared his throat and diverted his gaze into the fire, remembering the afternoon that had changed his way of life forever: Genesis' anger, his determination – wresting the gun from his hands, taking the bullets – terrified, helping him steal horses without a second thought, leaving Midgar behind.

Yes, he didn't need to. But he couldn't have lived with himself if he hadn't.

"Gen and I were different, Zack," he reminded the other, tearing away from the memory. "We knew each other all our lives before we became like this. And you're different because you owe us_ your_ life, no?" Zack had calmed, listening with a still aggrieved expression; but that was progress. "All those men came for is the money, and they didn't get it."

"But it's _not right_, Angeal," the youth muttered, flopping back down to the sand next to him. Angeal smiled and ruffled his hair, amused at the half-hearted irritation as Zack batted his hand away.

"No, and it's good you see that," he said. "But we'll just have to be better than them."

The youth grinned, anger forgotten like the wind, and nodded. "We'll get him back before y'all notice he's gone. And we don't need dogs like them to help us!"

Outwardly agreeing with Zack's confidence, inside Angeal was trying to quell his anxiety. Yes, he was sure they could do it, but _how_ would be the question to answer; at the moment, he thought it more likely that Genesis would be hung than the two of them rescuing him in time.

And the idea terrified him.


End file.
